Another taskless day has thrust itself upon me and demanded my full attention. So! You want to occupy me with a long list of nothings to do! In the beginning I came into this place and reorganised the filing system when my services were not required. But that’s done now. I can’t even tidy the place up a bit as we have pretty decent cleaners in here every evening. The best days in this office are the days when my boss gets really flustered as work trickles in in a steady flow….she mutters “Oh my God!” and “What a day!” every fifteen minutes. And as she packs up her bags at 4pm after a gruelling day with a 10 o’clock start, her 90 minute lunch and her two 30 minute coffee breaks, she declares her need of a glass of wine and a long bath after this. Don’t get me wrong though – I find this genuinely amusing – she is a terrific boss. She spent the first thirty minutes of this morning regaling me with the tales of the ball she went to on Friday night. She just doesn’t do stress. I thought I was the kind of person that couldn’t do stress. In my previous job I have been known to lock the door, put the phone on the hook and have a good cry. But there is no stress here – none whatever (unless you count the person in my office who is a mouth breather. Noisy, phlegmy breathing at all times, which I can even hear through my earphones. It is quite remarkable.) This place is a bit of a dream for a person like myself, who enjoys efficiency and so is not afraid when blurry undemanding deadlines are set for small tasks…ah, it’s the little things in life innit?
A friend of mine, a minister, got “installed” into a church on Friday night. Installed? Who decided to call it that? She is being elected pastor of a flock – not fitted into a corner and hammered in with nails and plywood. It was one of the most boring and joyless events I have ever attended – apart from a heart-warming speech towards the end from one of the church members expressing a really beautiful welcome to her. (I had a little weep then.) The rest of it was irrelevant archaic hymns and prayers by rote – so different to the church I attend, which feels like going home. It’s warm and vibrant and very ordinary, and despite our distinct lack of mystery or grandness I don’t think the sense of reverence is lost. It’s a nice place. I felt lonely sitting in that pew on Friday night, with all these Masonic figures round me with stern faces and highly starched navy suits. Pah. What’s it all about? Afterwards they fed us an unbelievably huge amount of sandwiches and cakes (classic Presbyterian behaviour) and having not had any dinner, I gravitated towards the sausage rolls, which sadly tasted like dehydrated onion and left the stench and taste of such in my mouth for many hours. (Isn’t my husband a lucky man?) The other things were nice, if oniony from thereon. Also, the hall where we were eating and drinking smelt distinctly of wee.
So I used my slow-cooker for the first time on Saturday and the entire village declared the results an unmitigated success. (I actually don’t know what unmitigated means, but I think it fits with what I’ve written.) I got up early on Saturday morning and fried up some beef, garlic and chillies, drained off the fat, and then popped it into the slow-cooker with a lot of tomatoes, beans and spices, and by 7pm, the most delicious chilli had been achieved. The guests ate and drank and played Articulate! whereupon I was royally thrashed. I blame the red wine, I’m not used to it. Being common as muck, I enjoy a nice sweet white wine, with an ethic of the cheaper the wine the better. I am getting used to red wine, but I strongly dislike the mouth-staining that comes with it, and find myself with an urge part-way through glass 1 to brush my teeth, which of course is not very conducive to wine appreciation. I find drinking red wine somewhat like drinking a liquid fabric. White wine is so crisp and refreshing with that nice warmth down your throat – while red is sort of furry or something. I have had the odd glass of a light summery red which I liked, but unfortunately I never pay attention to anything on the labels of wine other than the price. Popping a couple of bottles into the trolley at Tesco sadly raises the grocery bill to dizzying heights. But I must stop complaining about the prices of things – I am starting to sound like a German.
I missed my stand-up comedy class last night. I spent the afternoon frantically typing up gags and had an argument with the printer when it wouldn’t concur immediately with my printing wishes. When I eventually ran out the door, sweating, to get the bus, I saw it pass me by nonchalantly while I stood on the opposite side of the road, cursing heaven and hell. The traffic was so bad that I spent a good five minutes trying to cross, by which time the bus was well on its way, filled I can only presume with smug and happy passengers. But I am determined! I have grit! So I picked up my heels and ran to the train station. Gasping at the ticket desk, with the train in view on platform 2, I asked the train-staff-person, “Will I have time to catch that train?” Without looking at me, he took my money and gave me a single ticket (supposing I had wanted a return?) and replied, “Platform 2.” I repeated, “Will I make it?” which received a nod in response. I ran across the bridge over the railway lines and as I did so, the bastarding train pulled away. I actually stamped my foot. I stormed back to Mister Ticket Man and enjoyed an altercation which resulted in his informing me that I had been late for the train. I demanded a refund and rather than face any more of my red-faced frustration he complied, whereupon I stomped homeward and angrily ordered a Chinese take-away and watched the soaps. All in all, one of my more successful attempts at overcoming my agoraphobia.
But then again, when you’ve been reading The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, even the biggest failures end up looking like victories.
neuro-praxis – Can he do this?
So another birthday has been and gone. I’m not sure how this has all come about. I could never understand people who began to freak out a little when they hit thirty, but I understand it now. It isn’t that I mind getting older, I don’t - and at twenty four I’m still in my prime for goodness’ sake; it’s just that I cannot believe where the time has gone to! Twenty four! I am married! I am grown-up! I have a responsible job! But I am sixteen on the inside! This is dangerous for society!
Anyway it’s not all bad. I was given a disgusting amount of presents, of which at least 50% were toiletries. It’s Christmas all over again. I still haven’t sorted through my trough full of gels, mousses, soaps and lotions from December. The biggest perpetrators are always the people you know least well – colleagues and so on. Belying this theory however my mother also gave me a giant spa set, I can only presume because she sees me as a giant spa. Let’s hope the cosmetics aren’t lethal when combined and applied, a la the marvellous original Batman movie, which I saw for the first time recently. That movie changed my life. Isn’t it time for a change for you too?
All things filmy: I went out last night with the intention of seeing Rocky Balboa with my handsome husband (WATCH! ME! PUNCH! THE! AIR!) but while enjoying a pre-movie coffee we decided to ditch the movie because conversation is so much better. He’s clever, is my husband, and says things I like, even if we are in a feud at the moment about the “book” The Little Prince, which I find interminably pretentious and meaningless, and which he finds “deep” “thoughtful” and “quite good”. Outrageous! I have married some class of a moron! A Grade A Moron, in fact, akin to the kind of person who would ever question eating meat. Anyway, I do hope we manage to get to see it some evening, perhaps on a night when we are drugged and thus our conversation less sparkling. Don’t you love those victory movies – those underdog achieving his dream even if it causes brain damage movies? I do! I can’t sit still during the Rocky soundtrack. I’ve just got to punch the air (and my husband). Otherwise it feels like I’m wasting an opportunity!
We went home and I made some popcorn in a pot with a see-through lid (thrill) and then we ate it and watched Hellboy on TV (which incidentally was interrupted by the “news” about snow and some model finally snuffing it – I think she died by ingesting the ashes of a thousand dollars) and it is a great movie! Really great! And would you believe, of all movies, it is laced quite heavily with the Christian narrative. The number of movies which relay the gospel is really quite astounding. Hellboy himself is a being whose natural purpose is destined for evil and he makes the conscious choice to honour his father (sound familiar?). Plus he’s big and red and fireproof! And witty! And his girlfriend explodes! It’s a gem of a movie.
Back to birthday: my husbandry unit used my birthday as an excuse to spoil me rotten. I am the kind of woman that other women hate, because my husband doesn’t fail to remember special occasions and invariably has some thoughtful event planned. I on the other hand use his birthday as an excuse to beat the living daylights out of him. “Get BORN will you!”
He took me out for both breakfast and dinner. (At exactly the same time, I had a fry followed by a steak in quick succession. I spent most of the evening vomiting.) I was presented with three gifts: one in the morning, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. The first was a girl’s treat – a fluffy dressing gown. The second was a man’s treat – a slow cooker which cooks soups, stews and curries over a whole day. The third was a brain’s treat – the classic novel Steppenwolf, which I read in under a minute, thanks to my genius and genetic relation to Johnny 5 (alive).
So with the dawning of my twenty fourth year I have done some narcissistic reflecting. Nothing new there then. I am “taking stock” (of my toiletries). I decided it is time to do new things. This includes a master’s degree (at last) and a stand-up comedy workshop, which week by week grows in me a ball of terror so great I fear it will eventually digest me and I will be nothing more than a lump of rancid meat dissolved by digestive juices. That would make for an impressive stand-up comedy act, if rather unfunny. But hey. Is it spectacular or amusing you’re after, because you can’t have both? Unless of course you have a clown covered in diamonds and crying his eyes out. Now that’s comedy my friends. So the gig is in a few weeks. I have never been less ready for anything (other than every exam I’ve ever taken…oh and all those kids I unexpectedly gave birth to one day…boy was my face red).
So I’ve organised a big night out in work – drinks and huge servings of tapas at a trendy city bar. Yes, I’m the chirpy new girl who’s come along into the office with her head full of naive ideas about how we’re all going to start getting along. Anyway, everyone has signed up, and with no coercion, except for Dr. Obendorff, who’s been receiving death threats, but that’s not directly related to the night out. I am not one of those people who believes that one ought to socialise with one’s work peers – I didn’t go the Christmas party in my building for fear of being asked to dance on the table and being pronounced a “dry shite” upon my refusal. I did attend my department swish dinner out though, where I discovered that my co-workers are human beings and this at least we have in common. So I’d quite like to repeat the experience, but in a cheaper environment, as I have to fork out this time. That’s right. I’m chirpy and stingy; a formidable combo. Speaking of cheap and cheerful, I am having a little fantasy about a slice of pizza at the moment…loaded with mozzarella and ham and crispy vegetables. I wonder what the office etiquette on ordering takeaway pizza at 9.35am might be. Hrm. I think it might be time to set some new trends. How do they feel about JD and Coke at lunch? Just to get the weekend off to a decent kickstart.
To while away the hours in work I have been availing of
neuro-praxis – her cat’s name is Mittens